Alone With My Demons
by SevereObsession
Summary: Not all scars are inflicted on us by our enemies. Not all are so well-known as a lightening scar or a burning Dark Mark. Others are inflicted in the darkness, where no one dares go and where no one can return from.


Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm sure she'd be pleased to find out what we're doing with Snape. Then again, she might not be too pleased if she found out what we *want* to do with him. :)  
  
Author's Notes: After fighting over who gets to add Snape to their harem, Storm and Dia came to a mutual agreement. Write a fic about him. What else?  
  
  
Alone With My Demons  
  
Harry Potter stood in the hall outside the dungeon door carrying his books in one hand. His other hand hovered slightly above the handle as he debated whether or not to go inside. Snape had given him detention, but inside the room Harry could hear someone mumbling. It was almost as if the Potions Master was talking to himself.  
  
Harry sighed and pushed the door inward, suddenly sure he was hearing things. As the door swung open he could see Snape sitting at his desk, bent over something that Harry couldn't see. Snape's head snapped up and he quickly rolled down his sleeve, staring hard at Harry. He had been talking to himself.  
  
"Potter," Snape snarled, "what are you doing here?"  
  
Harry paused and frowned. "You gave me detention Professor."  
  
Snape's eyes narrowed and he glared at the student. "Of course," he said finally. "I have cauldrons that need to be scrubbed. Put your books down and follow me."  
  
Hesitantly, Harry did as he was told, giving a side-ways glance at Snape as the Potions Master breezed by him. Somehow, there was something . . . not right with the man. His dark eyes flashed dangerously, and yet, there was something else . . .  
  
"Potter!" he snapped. "Are you going to serve detention or are you going to daydream?"  
  
Harry raised his head, meeting the taller man's glare. "I'm going to serve detention, sir."  
  
Without another word, Snape stormed out into the hallway, his black cloak billowing around him like some ominous cloud. Harry was amazed at how silently and swiftly the professor could move. His own footsteps sounded thunderous.  
  
Harry knew better than to attempt small-talk. With other professors, he might have tried, but with Snape . . . he'd rather stare down a werewolf on a full-moon. So he simply tried to keep up as they made their way down to the dungeons.   
  
"Here," Snape growled, opening a door and gesturing roughly inside. "Your wand, please, Mr. Potter?"   
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't want you shirking your well-deserved punishment by chanting a simple cleaning spell. I expect you to work. Is that understood, or shall I deduct further points from Gryffindor?"  
  
"No, sir," Harry mumbled, disappearing inside the room after handing over his wand. The door shut firmly behind him.  
  
Harry knelt over the cauldrons, perfectly mimicking Snape's voice, "Or shall I deduct further points from Gryffindor?" He sighed and reached for the sponge and water Snape had left for him, then set to work on the grimy cauldrons.  
  
"Only Snape," he mumbled, pulling out a dragon's tongue from one of the pots and shaking it into the garbage. "I can't believe I'm stuck cleaning these bloody cauldrons just because Malfoy's mouth got stuck shut," he groused. "It's not my fault he can't keep it shut without magic." Harry continued scrubbing the cauldrons until he got to one that was encrusted with leeches, then backed away slowly.  
  
"That's just awful," he muttered, throwing down the sponge and going for the door. "I can't clean that without magic," he said, stepping into the hall and making his way back to the dungeons.  
  
The door was open this time and Snape was talking to himself again, muttering something about the Death Eaters and his Dark Mark. Harry scowled, suddenly very angry with the Professor and stepped inside.  
  
He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Snape. The Professor was standing over his desk, his left arm extended in front of him, the Dark Mark on his inner arm exposed.  
  
It wasn't the Mark that stopped Harry, it was the blood. The blood that dripped down Snape's arm, the blood that pooled beneath his fingers. A small razor blade was gripped tightly in Snape's right hand, his fingers stained with his own blood.  
  
Snape glanced up, the razor still pinched in his fingers. His dark hair was fanned over his forehead and he had to reach up to push it out of his eyes.   
  
"Potter," he said softly, his voice lacking the sharp edges Harry was so used to hearing.  
  
He dropped the blade and it clattered to the desk, droplets of blood flying, then rolled down his sleeve and winced.  
  
"Professor," Harry said, then stopped.  
  
What would he say? What could he possibly say? He'd just caught his Potions Professor trying to cut the Dark Mark out of his arm. What would Snape say if the situation had been reversed?  
  
Harry could just imagine the condescending tone of Snape's voice as he said, "Cutting yourself Potter? How unimaginative. If you're going to torture yourself try to find something that Muggles aren't so prone to doing."  
  
But, of course, the situation was not reversed, and Harry certainly wasn't Snape. He stared for a moment. "Professor . . ." he repeated, at an utter loss for words.  
  
"Get out." Snape's voice was low and dangerous, lacking the silken quality it usually carried. It was haggard now, strained even. "Get out, Potter," he took a ragged breath, glancing up to meet Harry's eyes. The boy could see the pain hidden deep in those dark pools, could almost feel it in his soul. "Please, Potter."  
  
Please. He had actually said please.   
  
Harry continued to stare, almost obssessed with the vision before him. It was surreal, really. Snape was almost doubled over, clutching his arm, blood soaking the sleeve and running in small rivulets down his fist. His throat went dry, but he managed one word. "Why?"  
  
Snape almost laughed at his question. He rolled his sleeve back up and swept down from his desk. He was towering over Harry in less than a second, as menacing as he always was.   
  
"Why?" The word was acid on Snape's tongue and Harry flinched, moving backward. "Look," Snape hissed. "Look at me, look at my arm."  
  
Reluctantly, Harry let his gaze drop to Snape's arm. The blood was beginning to dry, staining the Dark Mark a deep red colour. Under the blood he could see other scars, old scars. There were slash marks across his alabaster skin, the blue veins pulsing with the blood that Snape wanted so badly to draw.   
  
"Why do you think Potter?" he said, his voice sad and hoarse. "Why do you think?"  
  
Harry couldn't find the words to express his feelings. All he wanted to do was run, forget what he'd seen, bury his head in his pillow and sleep.  
  
But he couldn't. He couldn't escape from the bloodied horror before him. The black skull seemed to burn its image into his retinas until that was all he saw. He couldn't run. Snape had him cornered, but even if he hadn't, his feet felt like cement. He didn't have to answer Snape's question. The answer was screaming at him.  
  
Harry swallowed hard, his throat was dry and it suddenly ached. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, preventing any words from coming out. With trembling hands he slowly reached toward Snape's arm and grasped his wrist tightly.  
  
Snape winced and tried to pull away, but Harry's grip was solid and he pulled Snape's arm toward him.   
  
Slowly, he rolled up the sleeve again and stared at the smeared blood. It disgusted him, the dark blood, the serpent and the skull, it all made him feel horribly sick. The worst was the old scars, marks made by previous attempts to cut out the Dark Mark. The slashes on his wrists, failed attempts at ending his life.  
  
Harry dropped his arm and backed away slowly.  
  
Snape watched him go, then laughed, a dry sound in his throat. "What? No comments? No harsh ridicules? Losing your touch Potter? This is your chance . . . you know something about me. Why don't you use it?"  
  
There was a lump in Harry's throat that he found hard to speak around. "It won't make it go away . . ." he whispered.  
  
Snape's eyes burned with a black fire. "What did you say, boy?"  
  
Trying to control his trembling, Harry forced himself to meet the professor's eyes. "It won't make it go away," he said, louder this time.  
  
Snape's arms fell to his sides, the heavy sleeves falling down over the marks on his arm. His hands clenched into bloodless fists. "Do you think I'm stupid, Potter? Is that what you truly think? I know far better than an idiot like yourself that this mark will never go away. It is burned into my skin for all eternity, and it will haunt me until the day I am finally allowed to die." His eyes glazed over slightly and he gazed off somewhere behind Harry. "It will never go away. Neither will the pain . . ." He glared anew at Harry. "Do you know what it is like to wake up screaming from nightmares that are true? To be haunted daily by your past?" He grasped Harry's shoulders, his long, thin fingers gripping the boy like a lifeline. His voice dropped until it was barely audible. "Do you?"  
  
Harry almost laughed, hating the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. Did he know what it felt like to be haunted by the past? What a ridiculous question. Was Snape so wrapped up in his own guilt that he couldn't see the suffering of others?  
  
"What do you think Professor?" Harry asked quietly. "Do you think a day goes by that I don't think of my parents? Do you think my dreams aren't haunted by the sounds of their death? I heard Voldemort killing them, remember? The Dementors made me listen to their screams." Harry shook his head miserably. "You're not the only one with problems."   
  
Snape stared down at Harry, unsure of what to say to a student for the first time. Not just any student either; Harry was the one student that Snape believed he actually loathed.   
  
As he stared, his mind whirled, bitter answers on the tip of his tongue for seconds before they disappeared. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain to Potter that things weren't always as simple as he thought. Snape knew he wasn't the only one with problems, he knew that students dealt with things far beyond his imagination and yet, he still didn't know what to say.  
  
The room came pressing in on him and he was suddenly very aware of every sensation. As he struggled for words, Snape could feel the drying blood on his arm, the wet sleeve of his robes and dull throbbing that he so relished, the painful memories of past scars.  
  
Harry cocked his head. "Professor?"  
  
Snape's mind seemed to reel. He longed for his solitude again, longed for the searing pressure of the blade against his pale skin. He closed his eyes. "What is it, Potter? If you want a detailed description of the reasons why I do the things I do, you will just have to get in line and wait your turn."  
  
Deep inside, Harry began to feel pangs of . . . sympathy? What the hell was wrong with him? He was actually feeling sorry for this pathetic excuse of a man that stood before him? Snape had been a Death Eater. He had killed, no *murdered* innocent people, like his own parents, without any stab of remorse. And now, to deal with his pain by offering himself more pain... it didn't make sense to the boy's mind. But how could he feel sorry for Snape? How?  
  
Harry reached out and groped blindly for a chair to support himself. As he thought about the scars on Snape's skin, his strength seemed to leave him. Harry lived with the painful memories of his past, but the desire to hurt himself had never even entered his mind. He couldn't understand it, couldn't fathom the depths of the pain that Snape must feel in order to slice his own skin.   
  
Harry sat heavily in the chair, his hands placed on top of the desk and he stared at them His own, unmarked skin was a only few shades darker than that of his professor's and he could see his own veins under the skin. What would it feel like to draw his own blood?  
  
"I want to know why," Harry said suddenly, defiantly. His eyes met Snape's and he nodded, as if to confirm his decision with himself. "Tell me."   
  
Snape stared at the boy and his brow furrowed slightly, a deep line appearing between his eyes. He wanted to know why? That was the last thing Snape had expected. He had expected fear and uncertainty, he had expected to see digust and revulsion in the students' eyes, but he had not expected to hear the boy ask him to explain why he cut himself.   
  
His fingers twitched, aching to hold the blade once more and press it into his skin. He wanted to see the fresh blood blossom, the bright red a sharp contrast to the pale colour of his skin. Snape's eyes closed and he leaned backward, wondering what exactly he was going to say to get Harry to leave.  
  
"You want to know why," he stated, a dark smile slightly curving his thin lips. "There are so many reasons, you must understand, boy. Reasons you cannot begin to understand. I myself do not know the depths of my desires. I cannot control it, it becomes something I *must* do, not something I simply wish to do." He paused, searching for words. "Have you ever been in love, Potter?"  
  
"What?" Why was he asking this, now of all times?  
  
"Love. Surely you know what it is. Answer the question."  
  
Slowly, Harry nodded. "Yes."  
  
"Then let me put it this way. What I do is like falling in love, ridiculous as that concept is. You may want to fall in love, but it's not something you can force yourself to do. You just . . ." he waved a hand through the air, "fall."  
  
Harry leaned back slightly, half-wishing to get away from this man. How twisted . . . comparing something as beautiful as love to something like . . . this. It disgusted him.  
  
Snape didn't notice his expression. "You do not know the things I have done. Dumbledore himself does not even know the horrors I have caused, all willingly. I cannot blame a single act on another soul, or say that I was forced to take those lives. And that knowledge cuts me more than any knife ever could. I don't deserve the forgiveness Albus has offered me. I deserve to suffer like they did, only I do not deserve the peace of death. I'm not good enough for it." His voice trembled, and he looked away, lost in his tortured memories.  
  
Snape's eyes were troubled, storms brewed in the depths of each, threatening to spill over into words. Harry watched in amazement, the silence stretching over the room and deepening with every second that went by.   
  
It took Snape a few minutes to recover from his words and when he trusted his voice not to crack, he continued. "It's a release, Potter, if only a temporary one. These feelings . . . these memories build up and they throw a shadow over my life and if I don't do something about it, I'll drown in them." He paused and stared at Harry, then cursed quietly. "You wouldn't understand. You are just a boy . . ." Snape shook his head and murmured, "Just a boy."  
  
Harry stared at him indignantly. "I'm not just some child, Professor Snape." He paused and his voice grew softer. "I want to understand."  
  
Snape shook his head. "You can't," he said simply.  
  
Harry glared at him. "Why not? Why can't I understand?"  
  
"You have never dealt with the pain," Snape said softly, a dangerous edge growing in his voice. "You will never understand."  
  
Harry stared at his professor furiously, his hands clenching tightly in fists. He hated Snape's assumptions that he'd never dealt with guilt or pain. It had taken him years to convince himself it wasn't his fault that his parents died and even now, he wasn't sure he fully believed it.  
  
"I want to understand," Harry said, his voice hard and low. He stood suddenly and strode to the front of the classroom, reaching Snape's desk. With shaking fingers, he reached forward and plucked the razor blade from the drying blood on the desk, then turned and silently offered it to Snape.  
  
"Show me then. If words won't do it, let me see."  
  
The action caused Snape to suck in his breath. This he was not expecting. Accusations, hatred, disgust . . . those he could handle. But the blatant offer to cut himself . . . that caught him off guard. His stomach clenched tightly as his focus sharpened on the blade. It gleamed dully in the places where it was not mottled by the dark blood, inviting him to escape once again.  
  
Such a tempting offer, one he had gladly accepted so many times before. But now . . . now the route of his escape lay in the innocent hands of a boy, a boy who was now demanding that he show him why and how he released his pain with his blood.  
  
He stepped forward hesitatingly, his fists shaking by his sides. He longed to reach out for the knife, to dig it into his skin, to watch the blood flow, to be free.  
  
"You do not know what you are dealing with, boy." He tried to sound dangerous, but it only came out as weak. Weakness . . . he loathed the emotion. "Leave me. Now." His right hand trembled violently with the overwhelming urge to reach out and snatch the blade, to cradle it in his fingers. "Now," he near-pleaded.  
  
The boy did not budge, however. He watched as Snape's labored breathing caused his broad chest to press tightly against his robes. Through the man's black eyes, he could see a battle raging, one that pitted conscience against longing. One that Harry was glad he had never taken part in. His hand shook slightly as his eyes ran over the blade, but he did not retract his offer. "I'm not leaving. Show me."  
  
Snape's mouth tightened into a thin line and he drew in a shuddered breath as his trembling hand reached for the blade. He wanted it so badly, he could already feel the cool metal between his fingers and the blissful feeling of a release as the blade scratched against skin. As he reached for it, his sleeve slid up his arm, exposing the purple scars that marred his skin. Snape felt his heart pound and his blood race as he stared at the scars, knowing that he had put them there as punishment. He deserved to hurt, he deserved to be marked forever.  
  
"I deserve this," he whispered in a voice Harry had never heard before. The pain and self loathing in his tone nearly made Harry close his own hand around the razor blade and take it back, but before he could, Snape's fingers found it and pulled it from his hand.  
  
"I deserve this," his whispered again, anger and confusion clotting his voice.   
  
Before Harry could open his mouth to say anything, Snape had brought the blade down and pressed it against his forearm. Blood spilled from the wound, dripping down Snape's arm and falling onto the floor in a crimson waterfall.   
  
Harry drew in a deep breath and his chest constricted painfully as he watched Snape lift the blade and bring it down again.  
  
"No," Harry said, tears blurring his vision. He couldn't watch his Professor do that to himself. Without warning, Harry darted forward and tore the blade from Snape's fingers. He pressed his hand over the wounds, trying to make the bleeding stop and he slowly raised his eyes to Snape's.  
  
"No one deserves this," Harry murmured. "No one."  
  
Snape's eyes shot up, glittering dangerously. His dark hair had fallen erratically across his face, as if attempting to form a curtain to keep the raw emotion from escaping. For a moment, neither spoke, frozen into a silent standoff. Harry was afraid, very afraid, of what the professor might do. But he couldn't force himself to lift his hand from the man's arm.  
  
Blood oozed from between Harry's fingers, coating his hand with the warm, bright red liquid. But he didn't let go.  
  
"Give it back." The soft, low words echoed hauntingly against the cold walls. Snape stared coldly at Harry, silently begging him to grant his request. For it was not an order, as Snape was accustomed to doing, but a request. A pitiful request.  
  
Harry shook his head firmly. "No."  
  
The corners of Snape's mouth turned up once more. "You asked for this, Potter. Remember? You asked to see." His breathing was ragged. Harry shuddered as Snape's cold hand clamped down over Harry's. "Now give it back," he growled. "You have no place to say what I deserve."  
  
Disbelief flooded Harry's face and he had to hold back the startled laugh that filled his throat. Snape's hand tightened on his own, his short fingernails digging into the back of Harry's hand and his eyes suddenly grew very cold.  
  
"I said, give it back," Snape repeated, sounding more like himself with each word.  
  
Harry glared back. "And I said, no."  
  
They stared at each other, locked in a steady gaze that neither was willing to break. Whoever looked away first would be admitting they were wrong . . . and neither or them were about to admit that they were wrong.  
  
The sound of their breathing filled the classroom as Snape became more agitated and Harry became more uncertain. The blade felt cold and heavy in Harry's hand and he suddenly longed to just give it back. If he could just give it back and walk out, he could forget everything. He could leave Snape to his problems and go back to his own, simple, normal life.   
  
Snape stared at Harry, his dark eyes chaotic with emotion. With every other emotion clouding his vision, Harry could still see the immense sadness that lurked in his professor's eyes. In that moment, he knew he had to leave.  
  
Harry let go of Snape's arm, the professor's cool hand slowly sliding off his. He took a step back and placed the bloodied razor on a desk. "Have it your way, Professor. It's right there."  
  
He backed away until his shoulderblades pressed against the wooden door and watched the professor. Snape's eyes were riveted on the blade. He crossed the distance to the desk in two long strides, sweeping up the object in his hand and closing his fist around it. Holding his head high and purposely avoiding Harry's stare, he strode over to his own desk and placed his hand on the handle to his drawer. Hesitating only a moment, he flung open the drawer and dropped the blade inside. He stared after it a moment before slamming the drawer shut so hard that the echo was nearly deafening.  
  
Then he turned his cold, dark eyes to Harry. "Are you happy now, Potter? Is your perfect little world once more at peace? My torment shall never end, you know, blade or no blade." Once more he lifted the hem of his sleeve, revealing his bloodied arm. "It is always with me, you see, lurking beneath the surface like a demon." He sunk into his chair, burying his face in his hands.   
  
"Now leave me, Potter. Leave me alone with my demons."  
  
Harry's hand blindly found the doorknob and turned it, though his eyes never left the slumped form of the tormented professor. Silently, he slipped outside, closing the door behind him and leaving the man to find what peace he could on his own. But his sorrow and sympathy he could not leave behind. That he would carry with him no matter where he went. The image of the bleeding skull would remain with him as a burning testament to all that he must fight against. But he was grateful that the greatest battle of all was not his to fight.   
  
It was Severus Snape's.  
  
  
End 


End file.
